


Man-Flu

by Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers (writingfanfic)



Category: Impractical Jokers
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 09:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13384713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers
Summary: For the prompt: 'Brian x reader please where she's his nurse?'Sure!





	Man-Flu

“Stop bloody complaining.”

Your words to the mound of blankets on the sofa is answered with a complaintive groan, and you sigh, placing the mug of steaming cocoa onto the table. Red eyes peer at you from the folds of the blanket, and you peer in.

“Are you a Jawa? You look like a Jawa.”

“ _Utinni_ ,” comes a distressed grumble, and you grin. “I feel… cold. Like… hot cold.” You raise an eyebrow in perfect Spock-like judgement. “Is it possible to feel that?”

“It is when you have a severe case of the man flu, Brian,” you tease, and there is disgruntled silence. “You’re literally sat there, watching…  _The Matrix: Revolutions_.” He leans around you, looking at the TV.

“Oh my god, I must be ill. What the hell is this crap…”

You lean in, and kiss him gently on what you can reach of his cheek, and he flails at you.

“Get away from me, you don’t wanna get this. It’ll kill you. Stone dead. I’m only hangin’ on ‘cause I’m a paragon of rugged manliness.” He pauses. “That and the vodka stripping the germs from my throat.”

“There’s whiskey in the hot chocolate.”

“Oh, sweetheart, lady, (Y/N), you make me swoon.” He snuffles, and you pat where you assume the top of his head is affectionately. “I feel weird. Is that weird?”

“Might be to do with the fact you’ve swaddled yourself in blankets with a possible fever, yeah. Let’s get you out of there,” you say soothingly, and as you untangle the various duvets he has assembled from around the house, you uncover a very sad New Yorker with greasy, lank hair who has a gross red crusty nose and a very sad expression, and you kiss his cheek anyway. “Poor baby. Let me take your temperature.”

“I’m  _sick_ ,” he complains. “Thank god for my nurse.” He looks you up and down. “Got an outfit to go with that?” You wink at him, and then he sneezes into the crook of his arm. “Ah… crap.”

“I will get you a tissue. And then we can talk about the outfit. Tomorrow.” You roll your eyes. “You know, when you’re not going to get gross gunk all over me.” He pauses for a moment, and you can  _see_  the double entendre forming in his mind. “ _No, Brian_.”

“Give a dyin’ man a little humour in his final hours.” He coughs weakly, and you shake your head, making your way to the door to fetch him some tissues. “Thanks for doin’ this for me. Hey, can you make me some soup?”

You sigh, and continue down the hallway, before pausing.

“I think we’re out of ‘can-opener’…!”

The answer you get is a wheezing chuckle and then a coughing fit, and you sigh. He’ll be fine… tomorrow.


End file.
